


walk into the Light

by otomriddle



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-23
Updated: 2017-10-23
Packaged: 2019-01-21 16:55:58
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,473
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12461979
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/otomriddle/pseuds/otomriddle
Summary: Not for the first time the man asked himself if that was something everyone had to face before going to wherever they went. He thought so.





	walk into the Light

**Author's Note:**

> I just wanted to write Tom interacting with various Harry Potter characters.  
> Blame my RP partners.
> 
> Not beta-read, therefore lots of misspelings.

"So, you're my last heir."

Tom heard the words before he could see anything else. All around him was darkness and shadows, and his body felt as heavy as if he had rocks attached to his limbs.

"And you were incompetent enough to end our noble line. What a waste!"

The voice, which formerly had sounded far away, was now much closer, much clearer. Tom also started to feel his body lighter, and he was already able to move himself, something he did with great effort – and a groan.

Around him things were getting into focus. He was on a circular room, so white it seemed to shine on its own. There was no door visible anywhere; in fact, there was nothing visible anywhere but a man. He seated on the ground in the opposite side of the place. The man was tall, with dark hair, and green eyes. He wore a red silk robe, the only source of colour on the room.

"Answer me, boy! Why did you leave no heir to keep our good name?" The man said, crossing his arms. "Well, or to regain our good name, for we had lost _that_ already. Thought this particular event should not be blamed upon you."

A tense silence followed, while Tom tried to understand where – and who – he was.

Last time he checked, he was called Voldemort and people flee at the very mention of his name. He also had red eyes, pale skin, and his face resembled one of snakes. He took shaking fingers up, touching lightly his own nose (he had one!) and mouth and ears and eyelids.

"You're not that monster anymore, kid. I didn't like that face, it gave me the creeps. I prefer your normal one, which you should have kept if you'd had any brains."

Tom left his hands fall down as he remembered. The boy. The curse. The backfire. Voldemort was dead. Tom Riddle was dead. He was dead.

"You know, as much a fan of monologues that I might be, I'm not enjoying this one." The man finally stood up, his robe falling around him graciously. "Yes, you are dead. Yes, it was your own curse that caused your downfall. Yes, this is highly ironic"

Tom blinked once, twice. He finally decided to speak.

"I'm sorry, but who are you again?" Even his voice sounded different now – so much more _normal_.

The man walked closer, rolling his eyes.

"And they said you had inherited my brilliance! I am Salazar Slytherin, of course. Who else would want to meet you?"

Tom's mouth opened and made a perfect 'o'. The boy tried to decide whereas he was honoured with the appearance of the hero of his youth, or offended about what he had said. _But indeed_ , he thought, _now that I am dead, who'd want to see me_?

"Well, nice to meet you, sir." Tom replied after a small silence, watching the great Salazar Slytherin with interest. The other bowed slightly, a smile on his face.

"Yes, it must be." He agreed. "And now, you have a few things to answer to me, don't you think?"

"I... Don't know." Tom replied, his eyebrows furrowed. He tried to think about what Slytherin himself would want him to explain, but nothing came to his mind. Tom had never disgraced his heritage, after all. Not as much as the rest of his family had, at least.

"Oh, you don't know! What about the girl you killed using my snake? Do you really think I created Hlin with so much care and love for that? So an inconsequential kid could use my poor basilisk to murder annoying little ravenclaws just because?" Salazar's face got redder and redder as he spoke, his hands closing into fists. Tom took a couple of steps back, his own arms raising to defend himself in case of an attack.

"No, I... I suppose not." He mumbled, looking around trying to find an escape. If anything, the room seemed to get blancher than before. "I didn't mean to do it." Tom completed.

That seemed to take Salazar off guard. He had been walking closer, but the man stopped on his tracks, blinking slowly.

"You did not mean it?" Slytherin repeated, taken aback. "Do not lie to me, child!"

"I am no child!" Tom replied before he realized that to the other he must look like one. After all, Salazar should be at least a thousand years old by now. "And I _am_ telling the truth! I mean, what would be the point in lying now? I am dead already."

Salazar scratched his face, thoughtfully.

"Explain how you did not meant to send Hlin to slay that girl and yet, somehow, she did."

Tom bit his lip, trying to remember. It was funny how his memories seemed so blurred. He was sure he had had no intention of hurting Myrtle back then, however, it took him a couple of minutes to remember exactly how things had rolled. Salazar was tapping his foot on the ground impatiently all the while and was about to talk him down when Tom's memory suddenly came.

"I went to the girl's bathroom," He started. Salazar's eyes grew wide at this, and he opened his mouth as if to say something. "What? This is where the Chamber's secret entrance lays!" Tom completed quickly.

"What? They have changed the entrance? It was not supposed to be on the girl's bathroom, damn it. This is terrible intrusive... Helga will murder me again when she finds out!" Salazar said, passing his hands through his hair while he passed back and forth in front of Tom. After some time, he made a gesture to the other, inciting him to keep talking.

"Hum, well, I went to girl's bathroom to talk to Hlin. When I got in, the place was desert. I even had taken the care to call for anyone before I went inside. So, I entered the Chamber and stayed down there with the basilisk for some time – thought I am not sure how long." Salazar had stopped walking now, and was watching Tom intensively. "I was getting out of the entrance into what I believed to be the an empty bathroom when Hlin followed me outside. She wanted to play, to see the Castle again. I told her we had to stop those excursions since Dumbledore said that if there was any other attack the school might close. It wasn't worth it to close Hogwarts only so I could scare some mudbloods and have a good laugh. Well, this is when Myrtle got out of nowhere! Hlin looked directly at her and... She was dead."

Tom stopped, remembering how terrified he felt when the lifeless body hit the ground. The sound of Myrtle falling haunt him more than her own ghost did to Olive Hornby. Salazar smiled.

"What?" Tom asked, more aggressively than he intended.

"Nothing," Slytherin answered, shaking his head, the smile still on place. "It's just... I believe in you. I mean, I am still angry with the fact you used my basilisk to scare muggleborns – which, by the way, caused her death! – but I do believe you did not mean to hurt that girl. And it's enough, I guess, to know that what started it was an actual accident."

With this, Salazar gave his back to Tom and started walking to the other side of the room, directly into one of the walls. However, instead of hitting it like Tom had expected, Slytherin just kept walking and walking and getting farer away.

"Where... Where are you going?" Tom nearly screamed, his voice echoing into the white walls. Salazar did not turn back, but his reply still reached the other.

"I am going away. Or did you think I'd stay here forever? I've had my share of white walls, boy."

Slytherin was almost out of sight now. Tom tried to move, suddenly afraid of being alone on the circular room, suddenly feeling his chest heavy, his legs shaky. However, it didn't matter how much he walked or ran, he simply did not get out of place.

"What will happen now?" This time, Tom yelled. Salazar disappeared into the distance, but he was sure he could still hear the voice of the man lingering on the room, saying:

"What it must, child. I hope you understand."

* * *

It was hard to keep track of time. Tom felt as if days had passed by already, but his body felt no needs and there was no sun or stars to bide him truth. Instead, he sit on the ground staring at the emptiness around him, wondering what he was doing and what he had done and what he could've done. It was a very repetitive task, yet the the only option he had at hand.

It was during one of those wondering that she came. A woman with long dark hair and shinning, cold blue eyes simply appeared out of thin air behind him. She wore a white dress, which made her look strangely like a floating head against the whiteness of the walls – but a very beautiful one nonetheless.

"Hello." Tom said, jumping to his feet and offering one hand at her. The woman did not take it, choosing to walk to the other side of the room instead. Every movement was very slow and very elegant, as if she had no rush. That probably was the case, after all.

"So, you're the infamous Voldemort," Her voice was – Tom had no other way of putting it – like black velvet touching his skin. "I'd been wanting to meet you since you came here."

He blinked, watching the apparition carefully. It was unexpected to hear his old name here, a funny thing considering that for many years that was the only one he attended to. And somehow, there in the room of his after-life, it felt like a mockery, a joke to and of his past self.

"Yes, this is the name I used to get by." He answered simply, after a small silent. The woman was still giving her back at him. "And you are?" Tom completed, giving an uncertain step on her direction. She turned suddenly, her hair floating around her for a moment longer.

"I am surprised you cannot recognize me when I've been told my little girl looks a good deal like myself. But I suppose it has been a long while since the last time you saw each other." The other replied, her mouth shut on a thin line.

Tom furrowed his eyebrows, standing as still as he could. The more he tried to place the woman, the more the memory seemed to fly away. It was like trying to remember the perfect word to something you want to say, but being incapable of doing so – you know even how the sound of it should role through one's mouth, yet you can't quite put your finger on it.

"I see," The woman sighed, crossing her arms in front of her and passing around the room, looking at the ceiling with interest, her big blue eyes wondering about. "Maybe I should give you even more help, then? Think about all the people you have used and discharged afterwards – they are surely many –, and now think about a special girl you met in Hogwarts, that opened her heart to you and told her every secret only so you could corrupt everything she stood for," She stopped walking a few feet away from Tom, now the full power of her stare into his face. "Rings any bell?"

It did. In fact, Tom felt as if someone had just punched his stomach when the full force of the memory hit him. He remembered a girl with sad eyes and grey robes who cried tearless on his shoulder more than once. A girl who used to pass by the name of Grey Lady, thought she despised the nickname – only not more than she despised her surname itself.

"Helena." The word fell from his lips. He did not add the Ravenclaw part, an habit he acquired thanks to the years of friendship with the girl.

"Yes, Helena Ravenclaw. My only child," The woman said, turning her back to him again, but now Tom saw it was a way to hide her tears from his eyes. He recognized now the person who stood before him as Rowena Ravenclaw, the mother of his old acquaintance and founder of Hogwarts. "Took you long enough, Voldemort."

Tom smiled humourless at this, shaking his head.

"Pardon me, lady Ravenclaw. My memories seem to be a little... Hazy." He explained. The other seemed not to hear him. A long silence followed, full of tension. Tom was not sure whereas Rowena would run out of room, or kill him – again.

"Why did you have to use her?" Ravenclaw said finally, looking at him over her shoulder, no trace of tears visible. Her eyes were back to the ice blue they had ever been... That Helena always told him they were.

"I never used her," He replied, shrugging. Rowena narrowed her eyes at this, and Tom felt the need to complete his thoughts. "I didn't plan to, at least, not in the beginning. I... She was my friend. The only one I had for a long time. I told her everything about myself, and my past – well, as much as I knew," Tom smiled small as he remembered how Helena seemed to be more interested on finding out about his family than even he did. She was, after all, a ravenclaw. "Helena was the only one to know about my true heritage, and about my true feelings. After I opened myself to her, she was kind enough to do the same to me. She confided her misfortune, her darkest secrets. And like she kept mines, I kept hers. No one has ever known about what she had done – I saw that it remained unknown for as long as she wished."

"But you used this information!" Rowena interrupted him, gritting her teeth. "You told her you'd get rid of the Diadem for her, but you never did! You lied to my girl, and you broke her heart – and damned yourself in the process!" The woman was clearly furious. Her face was blushing fiercely, something which reminded him of Slytherin's visit earlier (or maybe a long time ago).

Tom blinked at her

"I am sorry, lady Ravenclaw, but it is quite hard to break something that was never whole," He replied, deciding he would not stand there and be insulted unfairly. "Helena's heart had been broken long before I met her. It broke with your and Bloody Baron's actions. Don't you dare try to thrust this upon me." The woman took several steps back, as if Tom had just slapped her on the face.

"I never... This is not about myself, but about your actions, boy!" She tried to argue, but her voice had lost the fury and steel it hold before. He shook his head at her.

"Then I will tell my story. She told me where the Diadem lay, and I said I'd take care of that if she wanted, but she did not. That was, until the day I graduated. She looked out for me, and asked if I would still be willing to do what I had promised her long ago – and I was. After my contract with Borgin & Burkes was over, I went to Albania to find the Diadem and put and end to it but... Things got a bit out of control over there," Tom furrowed his eyebrows as he remembered all that time he spent lost, wandering alone from village to village, learning all about forgotten, old, dusty magic... "And the plans changed." He completed, looking in Rowena's direction, shrugging.

"This is it? Simply _your plans changed_? And this is how you exchanged Helena for a piece of metal. For a piece of your soul."

"Well, there's something we have in common then, my lady," Tom was incapable of stopping himself. It was his time to greet his teeth and turn his hands into fists. "But I, unlike you, sought her and told her about my intentions, apologized in advantage. I would, after all, use the Diadem for a different however much greater purpose! Of course Helena was not happy. But what other choice did she have than accept the destiny I chose?"

Rowena made a gesture as to grab Tom, but seemed to think better and instead held her arms tightly around her chest.

"She didn't deserve it." The woman whispered more to herself than to him. Tom swallowed hard.

"We agree on that. Helena suffered enough, I should not..." His voice broke and he shook his head forcefully. "But what is done is done. Her wish was fulfilled anyway, and thanks to me. Potter destroyed the Diadem so he could destroy my horcrux. A happy ending!" Tom commented, his voice full of sarcasm. Rowena, thought, didn't seem to find it funny in the least.

"She was in love with you, fool boy!" The woman was shaking, thought the place was as warm as it could be. "And you broke her heart by deceiving her... The heart already sour for my own biding."

The boy sighed, closing his eyes and letting himself sit on the ground heavily.

"I know she loves me. _Loved_ me. And she knew how I felt about her as well. But we both understand it doesn't matter. A ghost and a live-being romantically involved could never happen. Just as much as Helena would never marry someone she couldn't love." Tom completed, opening his eyes and watching Rowena as she realized that her daughter had never had the intention to marry the man she chose to her – the same that caused her early dismiss.

Another silence followed, but this time it was not a tense one. Instead, both were lost in thoughts.

"I must leave," Rowena eventually broke the quietness. The brown between her eyebrows had finally disappeared, and she seemed more relaxed somehow. "Goodbye, child. I hope... Goodbye." At this, she turned and, much like the previous visitor, started walking on the opposite direction.

Only this time Tom didn't call after her.

* * *

Tom half expected another visit in the next days – or hours, since it was hard to tell the time. It was for such reason that he was not startled in the least when the couple appeared.

The three of them stood silent for a long while, looking each other intensively. In front of Tom was a couple of middle aged people: she wore a beige dress that went just over her knees and he wore a black suit. They were clearly together, for the woman relied on the other. It took Tom a long moment before he recognized them, but then again his lack of memory was excusable – he had seen them both only once on his life.

"Mrs. and Mr. Riddle, what a surprise." Tom greeted, his face blank.

"I didn't think you would recognize us, Junior," The woman replied, putting one stroke of blonde hair, which had fallen on her face, back in place. "It has been such a long time, after all."

"I normally have a good memory." He replied simply, choosing to ignore how the woman had just addressed him.

"Do you?" The man talked for the first time, raising an eyebrow. Mary laughed good-naturally – a strange sound in such a place.

"Oh, your father has a terrible memory, you see. Thomas here, on the other hand," She confided, looking up at her husband adoringly. "Always had a marvellous memory. He can see something but once and still he will remember it!"

The man smiled briefly, but his eyes never left Tom's. _Smart of him_ , he thought. Last time they had met, he had killed them during a moment of distraction of his grandfather. Not that if he had been paying attention the outcome would've been any different, of course. But the man would let the older think as he must.

"How have you been?" Mary asked after a moment, her voice kind. They were a few steps separated, but the woman made a movement as if to touch his face despise the distance. Instinctively, Tom walked a couple of steps back; Mary's hand fell motionless at her side, but her smile was unshaken.

"I have been... White." He answered, pointing at the doorless room, with it's white intensity that hurt one's eyes.

They nodded, understandingly. Not for the first time the man asked himself if that was something everyone had to face before going to wherever they went. He thought so.

"Do you know why we are here?" The man asked, serious. His voice was grave and it echoed through the room. Tom sighed.

"Maybe to tell me how wrong I was for having killed you? Or your son? Or for being born? I don't really know what any of you want before you tell me," Tom answered, sitting on the ground, feeling suddenly very tired – not his body, peer see, only his mind. "But you're definitely here to complain. That is all everyone always does."

Even before he finished his sentence Mary was shaking her head forcefully, a few locks of hair falling on her face gracefully. She walked quickly to Tom, and he felt panic rising on his chest as she approached, one hand on his direction. He jumped to his feet quickly, walking on the opposite direction.

Tom could not help but realize both of the reactions to his moving – very different and yet revealing. The woman stopped on her tracks, her hand still lingering in the air as her face fell. The man gave a step on their direction, his suit not hiding the way his broad shoulders moved threateningly behind it. Tom rolled his eyes to him; to her.

"Really, can you two just tell me what you are here for and then get going? I have surely a great list of 'People who want to complain to Voldemort for being Voldemort'. No time to lose once you're dead." He said, a slight smirk on his face. That had always been his best defence, after all. Not dark magic, not torture. Only the good old sarcasm.

They remained silent, the quietness seeming to get heavier on his shoulders.

"I just came here to tell you I'm sorry," Mary's voice was so low Tom almost missed it altogether. He turned to face the couple, once again together. The man stroked the woman's hair gently, but his glare was still on Tom. The boy realized now, by the look on his eyes, that he had been mistaken. Thomas was not watching him out of fear; he was actually memorizing his features.

"You were so scared that night. I saw it, you know. You were shaking," Mary kept going, a sad smile crossing her face. "There were so many... Many things I had wanted to ask you after your revelation. Where have you grown? Who were your friends? Have you been adopted? What was your favourite colour? Did you have a pet?" She finally stopped, taking a deep breath.

"Only you did not give us the opportunity, did you?" The man's voice was somehow cold. But, then again, anyone speaking after Mary would seem cold. "You killed us both before I had the opportunity..." He stopped himself, shaking his head.

"The opportunity to tell me you did not want me, as your son didn't?" Tom gritted his teeth, closing his eyes for a moment as he tried to maintain his calm façade. "I understood that when I was seven years old and realized I was not like the kids at my school, you know."

"But we did want you!" The man answered, his voice stronger, louder. Mary put a calming hand on her husband's chest.

"We did want you, Junior," The woman repeated, only in a kinder tone. "If we had only knew, we would have wanted... No, even after you appeared at our door, looking so pale and sick, we had always wanted you. A little boy to look after, to teach, to kiss..." She was looking at him so adoringly she almost convinced him. Only not quite.

"That would be before or after you dumped me on some trash when you found out I was like my mother? That I was a wizard?" He inquired, and he saw as Mary swallowed nervously and Thomas shifted uncomfortable.

"Your mother... Is a delicate case. But you, we'd never despise you for who you are. You would be ours, and we would love you." Thomas said, his voice breaking only in the end.

Tom shook his head, giving his back to the couple. He didn't want to hear anymore. He wanted to be alone in his white, asphyxiating room.

"Old people," He started, still not looking in their direction. "Their favourite hobby is always to think about what could've been. Don't you understand it? It doesn't matter what you would or would not do. You are dead!" Tom finally turned, smiling sadly. "And so am I."

"Yes, we are dead. But it doesn't change the fact you're our grandson. And that we do love you." Mary stated after a second. The group lingered a long moment, watching each other with interest and fear and doubt.

When Mary and Thomas left, nothing was said. There was no angry departing words, or advices, or screams. They had been there; and then they had not.

Tom didn't know if he preferred it that way. He thought he did not.

* * *

"Let's not play this anymore," Tom said when the woman materialized herself in front of him. He was already beginning to feel sick of the 'Guess Who I Am' game. "Who are you?"

The woman was not yet a woman, he realized after a better look. The girl would have, at best, 20 years old. She was dressed with a worn-down, yellow-ish skirt and a grey blouse. She had long but lank brown hair, and it was hard for Tom to tell if she was looking at him or at something else, for her eyes stared in opposite directions.

"Merope Rid- Gaunt." The girl finally replied. He almost lost the name, for her voice – which was already low naturally – was shaking badly.

The man blinked repeatedly, his brain working fast. Of course he should have expected his mother to visit him at some point; but he did not. He thought only the ones who he had somehow wronged would show up at his penitent room. But his mother... He had never done anything against her. He had never even met her.

He couldn't understand.

"What-" His voice broke, and he swallowed. The man felt at a loss of words, but he had to force himself to say something. "What are you doing here?"

Merope moved her hands anxiously over her skirt, avoiding (or so it looked) Tom's eyes.

"I am dead. I heard you... You were also... I wanted to meet you." The girl mumbled. She was now watching the ground wide eyed, as if waiting for Salazar Slytherin himself to grow out of it in drag and start dancing around the place.

For all Tom's experiences with the white room, he didn't think it was that impossible.

"I know you're dead," He replied, rolling his eyes. He spent eighteen years of his life in an orphanage for that sole reason. "And I know I am dead also, no one lets me forget it. But I don't understand why you wanted to... Meet me."

Her head snapped back up. She bit her lips and started to walk aimless around the room.

"Because you're my son! I never even had the opportunity to... To hold you in my arms," She confessed, looking at her own hands as if it was their fault. "But I saw you from afar, when they were taking you away. You had beautiful black hair, just like your father." She was trailing off now, her voice dreamy and her eyes glancing past Tom, to something that wasn't there.

"I would appreciate if you never again compared me to that man." Tom said a bit more aggressively than he intended. Merope blinked slowly, her eyes once again focusing on her son.

"I ought to explain to you," The girl started, looking around herself with furrowed eyebrow. Her hands started the anxious passing again, and Tom united his own on front of him. "I know what you think, what you suppose of his reasons. I cannot tell you for sure why he did what he did, but I can explain to you exactly how things happen-."

"I know how they happened," Tom interrupted, shaking his head. "I don't need you to tell me in the first person's point of view."

"No, but you don't know!" She answered forcefully, walking a few steps closer to Tom but stopping a good distance from him still. "I know what you think, Tommy. You think he ran way with me and when he found out I was a witch, he abandoned me. But that was not... Not quite..." She shook her head, tears in her green eyes threatening to fall. Tom looked away.

"I am sorry, but there's no other explanation. Morphin himself said-"

"Morphin didn't know anything," It was Merope's turn to interrupt him. Her tone was one of disdain, and she pulled a face at the mention of her brother's name. "He was in Azkaban by the time I ran away, and I was dead by the time he got out. We never really discussed about it while we were alive," She stopped, looking at Tom intensively, waiting for him to respond. He did not. She sighed. "I used _Coup de Foudre_ on him – you know it? It's a love potion, very ancient although tricky. But I mastered it. It was a Tuesday. He passed by our house, but kept a good distance. Morphin had attacked him once, you see... But I convinced him to come near and drink a cup of tea. I think he only accepted for the sake of politeness," She smiled small at the recollection. "He drank the potion, and fell in love with me instantly. I was so happy! No one had ever treated me so... Well." She shrugged. Tom was watching her, his face a blank mask. She avoided his eyes again. "After a year or so, I decided I could no longer – you understand? – I could not keep living with him that way. I thought that he would have fallen in love truly by then. And there was also the baby... He seemed to adore you already! He talked with you so often; it never occurred to me he would leave us both just like that..." Her voice broke. She was teary eyed again. A long silence followed, only her soft sobs being audible now and then.

"But he ran away anyway," Tom finally broke the quietness. His voice was plane while he observed his mother. "It doesn't matter the means, only the end. He knew you were pregnant, and he ran. He knew there was a child out there with his blood, and he ignored. Did he not?"

"He did but-" She started in a whisper.

"That's all I care." He said.

He thought to fill the moment with the so many questions he had wanted to ask his mother. Why didn't she come back home after the muggle left her? Why didn't she save herself? Why did she allow her body to die?

But there, looking at that twenty or so years old girl, with red eyes and trembling lips, he found out he didn't have enough will in him. And he knew what Merope would answer anyway. He knew the feeling. Only he never gave in.

She did.

"Can I touch your hair?" She asked, and Tom jumped slightly at the odd request. They exchanged a look, but he nodded, his eyes never leaving hers.

She came around slowly, her hand stretched on his direction long before she reached him. Her touch was gentle, but her fingers were ice cold. She caressed his hair, a smile – not a sad, not an angry smile – on her mouth.

"It's exactly how I imagined." She told him, her hand slipping down and touching his cheek for a split second. And then she gave his back to him and started walking away.

She looked back only once. He waved her goodbye.

* * *

It took so long to the next visit that Tom thought no one would ever come at all. He passed on and on inside his mind all the names that could come next – and he realized it was an endless list. Dumbledore, James, Lily, Frank, Stubbs, Ashley, Luan, Burbage... There were too many names. Too many histories cut short by his own hands. He'd never see anything besides those white walls. He'd never see anything besides those faces.

Or so he thought before the visitor arrived. The first thing that crossed his mind was " _not him_ ". With such a great list of people who have been wronged by him, why should be his father the one to come? The only person he wished to avoid more than anything – even more than his own past.

They both kept their distances, watching each other with fearful eyes. The silence was worst than any conversation they could have had because of its soft meanings; it was like there was so many things to say that they simply wouldn't come out of their mouths.

"Hello, Tom. How are you?" It was his father who broke the silence first. Tom realized then he had never forgotten the sound of that voice, the tones, the variations. It made him angry.

"Wonderful." His own voice was detached from any emotion, as was his face. Tom wanted the meeting to end as soon as possible: he wanted it to end now.

Another tense silence full of so many things. Neither of them had moved since they acknowledge each other's presence.

"It's been a while." His father tried again, shifting uncomfortable from one foot to the other.

The other was confused about what he meant by that. Had it been a while since they had seen last? Had it been a while since he came to the white room? I didn't matter, both answers were the same.

"It has." Tom answered, shrugging.

"You met your grandparents." The man continued quickly.

"I saw them, yes."

His father nodded, and started to grab his hands anxiously – much like his mother had done before. Tom gave his back to the other, watching the plain white wall behind him.

"Have you regretted?" The man's voice reached him. Although Tom could not see his expression, the shake on his words told him enough – of his fear and uncertainty.

"Not really." Tom answered, unturned. He wasn't lying. He made his special talent to never regret things. After all, it never did any good, for the past could never be altered.

Now, had his father made a different question... The answer might have been different.

Had he wished to know Mary better? Yes.

Had he wished to know how Thomas would end that one phrase left undone? Yes.

Had he wished to never have met them at all so all those feelings could go away? Yes.

Maybe it _was_ regret what he felt.

More likely it was not.

"I heard you were a terrific liar." His father said. This time, Tom could not understand his true feelings only by the sound of his voice. So he turned, brows furrowed.

The other was observing him, his face tilting to the side like he was admiring a piece of work someone said was wonderful but they themselves cannot quite see it.

"I am." Tom agreed with those unnamed people. The man, thought, shook his head.

"Not quite so. Don't get me wrong, to the untrained eye, you're the best liar in the world. But I can see right through you. I could not before, when we were... Alive," He hesitated in the last word, like it was some sort of swearing inside those walls. "When you killed me, and I looked into your eyes as I fell, all I could see there was merciless indifference. There was no fury, no fear, no pleading – that was what I thought then, at least. I have come to realize my mistake."

"Indeed there was not only indifference there. There was hate and fury, also." Tom confided, a small smile playing in the corners of his mouth. But it was on his father's features that the smile broke. A sad, tired smile, but an honest one.

"Yes, there was a lot of fury. And so much fear. I've made this theory, you know, that you delayed so long to kill us because you were waiting."

"Waiting? Waiting for what?" Tom asked, his voice betraying the anger that was rising inside his chest, making his heart heavy and his breath shallow.

"Waiting for someone to stop you. Anyone. Waiting me to tell you I had never known about you, and maybe apologize. Waiting for your uncle to wake up and realize your plans, and come for you. Waiting for a friend to understand what you were about to do and come in your rescue. Waiting for anything."

He knew it was true; but the fact his father had also realized that made him angrier. He had no right to understand him, not after all that has happened.

"Get out." He whispered, his hands into fists. The other simply sighed.

"I hit the nerve. It seems I am very good at that. But Tom, you need to understand..."

"There's nothing to understand." He interrupted.

People kept saying that to him. That they had to understand. That he had to understand. That they needed reasons. That he needed reasons.

All he ever wanted was to be alone.

All he ever wanted was to not be alone.

"It felt like I was seeing the world through someone else's eyes," When his father continued, his voice was barely over a whisper. His eyes never met his son's, and his whole body seemed to be shaking. "It was like a dream where you observe everything from the first person's perspective but yet you're somehow aware that that person is not you. I could not control my own body reactions, my own words. It was not a bad feeling, actually. For the most part I was... Happy. For the most part it had been a good dream. Until, that is, she stopped giving me whatever it was," Tom didn't need names to understand his father was referring to Merope. "Have you ever seen a drug addictive when they have their drugs taken? It's a terrible feeling. It stopped being a nice dream and quickly became a nightmare. Something was eating me from inside out, and the more pain I felt, the more aware I became. I realized, bit by bit, that all that had happened were real: I was not in my own home; I was not with my own family. I was with a woman I had never looked more than thrice in my life, a woman who kept apologizing and saying everything would be alright. Kissing me, touching me, caressing me when all I felt was confusion and disgust. Of course I ran away in the first opportunity. Of course I was afraid. She loved me, and I did not love her – how could I not fear that?"

While he looked to Thomas Riddle, his father, Tom realized suddenly it was not rage that bubbling feeling inside of him. It was also not love, far from it. It was just confusion. It was just curiosity. He wanted to understand the man – but he never could. And it unsettled him, this not knowing.

Now he could know.

But he feared.

"You knew she was pregnant. When you saw me that night, there was no surprise in your eyes." Tom remembered, one finger pointed in the other's direction. His father nodded.

"You have to remember the dream-life like I was having. Things were not always clear; I not always remembered what had happened correctly. When I ran, I had no idea... I didn't know. But then, the memories started coming back," His eyes were pleading, asking for Tom's comprehension. "I had these glimpses of... of Her... Telling me about a baby. Me talking to this unborn child. For a long, long time I hoped it would be only part of the fantasy she created – the lies, the drugs, all made up to keep me on her side. It was only years later I came to accept the truth. By then, I hated myself enough to just about convince me you'd be better off without me. Who'd want a weak, coward, mess of a father such as myself?"

 _I would_ , Tom thought. He'd accept anything. He'd accept anyone.

"And then, eventually, you came for me. You were right, I was not surprise. Only relieved. I thought I would finally be able to explain, to make you understand, but..."

"I didn't give you the chance," Tom completed with a sigh and a roll of eyes. "You and your whole family seem to like this version of the history, when what I remember is slightly different. I waited for you all at the hall. I asked if you knew who I was. I saw in your eyes you did. Your parents asked you what was happening. You didn't answer. I did. Three minutes passed by, and no one moved. I did. You – and Mary and Thomas and goddamn everybody – had a great chance of correcting the wrongs. But you chose to ignore, and instead looked at me as if I was an apparition, a disgusting insect that showed at your door requesting for a roof."

The man tried to answer something, his mouth opening and closing repeatedly in a stupid way.

"We were afraid. And shocked!" He was finally able to communicate after a moment. "You cannot blame us for needing a few moments to understand what was happening."

"And I suppose," Tom said, giving a step in his father direction. "I should also not blame your for the looks of aversion in your eyes."

He was mistaken, it seems. He was actually angry.

"Not aversion. Confusion. You were something we had never quite understood... I had never quite explained. You were the past and the future colliding. You were..." The man tried to find a word to explain, his eyes looking around for some help.

"A freak," Tom offered, and discharged his father's shaking head with a raise of hand. "Don't worry, I am used with the label. I was a freak back in the orphanage because of what I could do; I was a freak back at Hogwarts because of what I could not have; I was freak when I was Voldemort because of the things I had done. It is understandable you felt the same. Good people always feel evilness, that was what Mrs. Cole always said. Maybe it's it. You were good and I was bad. You were normal and I was a freak."

Tom suddenly felt very tired.

 _Maybe that was the whole problem_ , he thought, _I was always a freak trying to play normal. Trying to fit in, wherever I was. Making the choices I thought would make things right. But they only made it worst._

The room was spinning, and he decided to sit.

_Had I just accepted who I was, would the outcome be any different? Had I stopped trying to be what I was not, had I accepted my nature, would I have another life? Had I accepted others choosing for me, would it have been better?_

His father was saying something, but his voice seemed to be far away.

_I understand now what they all had wanted from me. Slytherin, and Ravenclaw, and Mary, and Thomas, and my mother, and my father... They wanted me to understand my own actions. My own reasons. It was not about them. It was about me._

The room was somehow narrowing around him, getting brighter.

_They wanted me to regret what I had done. Not to them or their beloveds– they had already accepted that. They wanted me to regret what I had done to myself._

It was so bright now it was hard to keep one's eyes open. Tom remembered someone saying once that when people went through a nearly death experience, they'd see a white light. To survive, you had to avoid the whiteness.

He walked right into it.

_I regret._


End file.
